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Dear detective, officer, behavioral analyst, or random poor soul who happened upon my body and subsequently this journal. This is not a suicide note. This is an explanation of my death. I suppose i cannot stop you from calling it a suicide note now, but maybe you’ll respect the wishes of the dead.
I want you to know why i, Sherie Gayle, ended my own life. And i want you to know everyone you should prosecute for my death.
But first, the wishes of the deceased. Please carry them out.
CH 1
Hakeema gently contoured her foundation around her dark protruding cheekbones, she was very practiced, being unable to see her reflection. She caressed delicate blue eye shadow onto the deep brown eyes which screamed “I’ve seen some shit.” She slid a stud into the side of her long hooked nose and glided deep red lipstick over her lips and ran a finger over her fangs to be sure none stuck to them. She glued on fluffy fake eyelashes then draped her hijab over her short hair. She adjusted her business suit only to realize she had an hour left.
She pulled out her old flip phone and began to play with it, flipping it open and closed. She contemplated calling her aunt and thanking her once more for setting her up with her new job, but suspected she was busy. The whole time she had interned for her district attorney aunt, they had both been busy. She didn’t see any reason why it should be any different now.
She laid down in bed, wondering if showing up early would make her seem over-eager. Then she wondered if the older detectives would want over-eagerness. Her head was a mess of contradictions and worry. She felt like she was 16, back in her college dorm, preparing for her first freshman class all over again.
Hakeema turned on her Xbox and went to the Netflix app to find some background noise. Her list was full of detective shows. She knew that one might say she was obsessed, but she considered it training. She thought that if she could stomach the shows she could stomach the murders she was going to see.
She continued to adjust her clothing and makeup while absently staring at her television screen until it was time to leave. She checked herself over once more, and realized she had forgotten to brush her teeth. She cursed herself and rushed to do so. Lipstick stains covered her toothbrush.
She stepped outside slowly, using her hijab to block the sun. She strolled with purpose in her steps down the street. Living within walking distance of the station was certainly going to be useful.
She saw the usual faces as she walked. Trolls, elves, faeries, and the like. It was rare to see a human in this town, though not unheard of. Checking her watch, she saw that there was enough time to grab a coffee. Caffeine was an addiction of hers, along with the cigarettes she kept in her handbag at all times. She would care, but nothing can cut the lifespan of an immortal in half.
She entered her favorite hipster coffee house and glanced around at the customers. High waisted shorts and dark lipstick was everywhere among the floating cups being instagramed. She walked up to the familiar barista, a bloodsucker like herself, and gave him a smile full of fangs. “Hey there Johnny.” Hakeema said coyly. “I think you know my order by now.”
He laughed. “You don’t even know your order. You always come in and say ‘Something strong with caramel.’”
“That’s an order.”
“Bossing me around now?”
“You know exactly what i meant.”
“No, don’t worry, i like it.” He winked and was elbowed by his sister.
“That’s unprofessional.” She scolded.
He turned to her, “Come on Jill, it’s Hakeema. I’ve known her since nursery school.”
“There are people in line.” She said with an exasperated sigh. “Here you go ma’am. While my associate was chatting, i made your order. Have a nice day.”
“Thanks Jill. Bye guys.”
Hakeema shoved her way through the crowd that had somehow thickened and sipped her coffee. A few doors down was her new station. There was her new job. There was her new career. There was her new life.
But that door was blocked by a very tall leaning figure with pointed ears and wild hair strangled into a ponytail. “Yusif?”
“That’s me.” Hakeema said, a bit apprehensive.
“You’re late.”